Tell Tale: Short Stories
Page 7
“No,” said the postman, “but he was drunk.”
“Ah, that would explain it,” said Antonio. “But, frankly, if he’d been dead before you attempted to drown him, it would still have been a close-run thing.” The postman tried to look offended. “Anyway, there’s something else you’ve overlooked.”
“What’s that?”
“Lombardi wasn’t drowned. But good try, signor, and more important, have I got any post this morning?”
“Yes, one from your mother, one from the chief of police in Naples, and another from your brother.”
“The printer or the lawyer?” Antonio asked as the postman placed the three letters on his desk.
“The lawyer.”
“Are there any secrets in this town?”
“Just one,” said the postman.
* * *
Dinner with Francesca at her favorite restaurant was about as public as an execution. If he’d even thought about holding her hand, it would have been front-page news in the Cortoglia Gazzetta.
“Don’t you ever get bored living in a small town?” he asked her after a waiter had whisked away their plates.
“No,” she replied. “I can read the same newspapers and the same books as you do, watch the same television programs, eat the same food, and drink the same wine. And if I want to buy some new clothes, visit an art gallery, or go to the opera, I can always spend the day in Naples.”
“But the bustle, the excitement, the—”
“The traffic, the pollution, and the graffiti, not to mention the manners of some of your fellow Neapolitans.”
“I want to hold your hand,” he said, while the Beatles record played in the background.
Francesca looked around the tables and smiled. “Then we’d better skip dessert and go for a walk.”
“I’ll settle the bill,” said Antonio, taking out his wallet.
“There won’t be a bill,” said Francesca. “Gian Lucio is telling everyone that although he confessed to killing the mayor, you refused to arrest him.”
“Because he wasn’t guilty,” protested Antonio. When they stood up to leave, Gian Lucio bustled across to say he hoped he would see them both again before too long.
As they walked together through a maze of cobbled streets, Francesca chatted as if they were old friends, another new experience for Antonio. And when they finally ended up outside her front door, they kissed for the first time.
“See you tomorrow,” Francesca said as she put her key in the lock. “Will it be razor blades or shaving cream I wonder?”
She had closed the door before he could reply.
* * *
The Naples chief of police called Antonio at the end of the month, and asked if he was making any progress.
“Can’t pretend I am, chief,” admitted Antonio. “To date,” he said, opening a thick file, “thirty-three people have confessed to killing Lombardi, and what makes it worse, I think they all know who did.”
“Someone will crack,” said the chief. “They always do.”
“This isn’t Naples, chief,” he heard himself saying.
“So who’s the latest one?”
“Not one, eleven. The local football team are claiming they pushed Lombardi over a cliff.”